


Double Trouble

by ardavenport (adavenport)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 07:27:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2986823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adavenport/pseuds/ardavenport
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An American client visits John and Sherlock to help a friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**DOUBLE TROUBLE**

by ardavenport

 

**-=- -=- -=- Part 1**

 

Laura Martinez glanced down at her Easy-Transit-for-London app once more before slipping her cell phone into her purse as she hurried down the street to the corner. Baker Street. She turned left, going one . . . two . . . three blocks, checking the addresses on both sides of the street as she went. Walking quickly kept her warm, since her coat was much too light and her skirt too short for this kind of weather. The morning was sunny with only a few clouds in the sky, but Britain had funny ideas about what late spring temperatures should be.

It was mixed, inner city commercial-residential buildings, three and four stories high, occasional trees on the sidewalks, two lanes of traffic on Baker Street, glassy office buildings in the distance. Plenty of pedestrians, but not too crowded; everybody would be at work by now. It was a safe neighborhood.

Just next to the ''SPEEDY'S, SANDWICH BAR & CAFE" she spied the address she needed, 221B. Ugh, if she'd known that there was a place to eat right next door she would have passed on the greasy sausage-thing at the hotel that currently weighed down her stomach. Too late now. She went up the step and pressed the buzzer with 'HOLMES/WATSON' next to it.

She did not hear anything from inside. Nothing happened for too long. She tried again, pressing on the button longer and harder this time. There was a noise. The door opened.

A very average man, average height, average weight, average age (mid-30's), average hair (dark blond, cut in an un-distinctive style for a man), average clothes (light gray sweater, dark pants) opened the door.

"Yes - - " His tone started out cross before he stopped; his eyes flicked down and back up at her face. That's what low necklines were for. "May I help you?" he asked in a much more friendly tone.

"I'm sorry, I don't have an appointment, but I really need to see Sherlock Holmes. It's kind of an emergency."

"Oh, yes, of course." He stepped aside letting her in. "You're an American?"

"Um, yes, I just got in the day before yesterday."

"Oh, well, welcome to London." He smiled. She smiled back. Even without her heels, she was pretty sure she was an inch or two taller than him. She glanced around the cave-like foyer.

"Um, should we go in?"

"Oh, yes, of course." He gestured for her to go forward. "It's just upstairs. I'm John Watson." They exchanged a brief, neutral handshake.

"Laura Martinez. Uh, you're the one with the blog?"

"Ah, yes. Yes, I'm the one with the blog."

The dingy foyer led to a dingy hallway with horrible gray wallpaper on one side and horrible textured beige walls on the other.

"Yes, I'm the one with the blog . . . " John Watson muttered behind her.

They climbed a worn stairway, badly in need of paint or carpet or any kind of resurfacing.

"The one with the blog, that's me," she heard muttered softly behind her. Laura wondered if John Watson always talked to himself.

There was a window at the landing, frosted glass with a few minimal green-colored panes, but otherwise everything was dark and narrow and old, very much like her hotel, located in a decent part of town, but less ruinously expensive than the ones nearer the tourist spots.

As they passed the landing she heard music and it took her a few seconds to recognize the tune. It was R.E.M. Played on a violin.

_'It's the end of the world as we know it,_

_It's the end of the world as we know it,_

_It's the end of the world as we know it,_

_And I feel fine.'_

It was coming from a door, half-open on the second floor. John pushed it open all the way and Laura stepped inside. The music switched to the rapid-fire verse of the song, played by a tall, thin dark-haired man standing at a music stand by one of the front windows of the apartment; he had to be Sherlock Holmes. There wasn't a picture on his web page and she hadn't had time to look for one on the internet on the hotel computer, but that didn't matter. He looked like a Sherlock Holmes. Maybe a little older than her, maybe not, expression intense as he played through the song.

"Ahem." John cleared his throat. "Sherlock. We have a guest." He helped Laura take her coat off and then hung it over the back of a chair.

The music stopped and he turned toward them, bow pointing straight up in the air. Sherlock Holmes was definitely above average. Long and lean, built like a greyhound, dark hair, gray eyes, slim hips. His clothes and haircut weren't anything special, but he at least had the sense to wear dark and solid, neutral colors and his gray shirt went well with his eyes, which did not pause on any one part of her. His brows twitched.

"This is Laura Martinez," John Watson introduced her. "She has a bit of an emergency."

"Yes, I can see it must be to call you all the way to London from South Florida on such short notice. I trust that you've had time to recover from your jet lag?" He put aside the violin and bow. He had a wonderful low voice that went so well with his British accent.

"How did you . . . ?"

He opened his mouth.

""No, wait, please," she stopped him; his website said that he could deduce things just by looking at you, "I don't care how you do that. I just need you to help me to keep my friend, Nancy, from getting her boyfriend killed."

Sherlock's brows rose with interest. He invited her to sit on a brown leather sofa by the wall while he and John took seats opposite her. In two mismatching chairs on either side of a small gas fireplace, a clutter of bookshelves, lamps and pictures on ugly wallpaper behind them. A worn and truly awful pink and red-hued Persian-style rug dominated the floor.

"Nancy is determined to find her boyfriend, Eddie, but he's in some kind of witness protection in this country and if she finds him I'm afraid she's going to lead some of his old pals in crime right to him. I think we were followed from the airport." She glanced down at the coffee table before her. A laptop sitting on what looked like disturbingly accurate anatomy pictures and some sheet music.

"Hmm, really," Sherlock commented with a frown. He sighed like he was deflating. "An American in some sort of witness protection in Britain. London."

John sat forward in his seat. "Well, that sounds serious. Please tell us your story, from the beginning."

Laura grit her teeth. What was Nancy up to now? Had she gotten an address? Would she text if she found one, or just go straight to Eddie on her own? Sherlock was slouching low in his chair now. What was suddenly bothering him? His web site said that he only accepted interesting problems, whatever that meant, and she was quite certain that Nancy's business classified as at least 'interesting'. John Watson gave her an encouraging smile. Maybe if she started from the beginning he'd see that and help.

Laura Martinez and Nancy Russell had been friends all through high school and after graduation went to the same community college, taking classes off and on and switching majors, dragging their feet on the big decision of what they would do with their lives now that they were officially adults. Once they were past the age of twenty-one and they could officially party as adults, they started clubbing together with friends. One of them was Eddie, a boy they knew from high school, but he hadn't been part of their crowd then. He had gotten into some less than legal activities; whether it was stealing cars or drugs or selling stolen goods, Nancy said she never asked him and Laura certainly didn't. But it gave Eddie some noticeable spending money and he was a lot of fun to hang out with and he didn't do anything illegal around them. Nancy started dating him seriously.

Life moved on, as it often did. The pressure to move out of her parents' house drove Laura to finish a double associates' degree in landscaping architecture and accounting and then onto a job at a property management company that Nancy's family partly owned. Nancy took the old-fashioned route to adulthood and got pregnant.

The night-clubbing pretty much ended with Laura's determination to actually be good at her work and not just somebody who got the job through her connections to Nancy, who suffered mightily through morning sickness, lethargy, weird food cravings and not being able to fit into any clothes except the frumpy maternity clothes her mother bought for her.

Laura saw less of Eddie but he looked forward to being a father and even put some real money into a bank account for Nancy to help support their daughter (they decided to name little Bridget after Nancy's grandmother, after the first ultrasound). Both Nancy's mother and grandmother dithered about demanding a wedding. Partly due to the potential danger of Nancy being legally tied to Eddie and his possibly criminal lifestyle (nobody ever asked questions about the money he gave to Nancy). And Grandmother had not been married when she had her first child and Nancy's mother had been married three times.

In the end, Eddie might have married Nancy, if he hadn't been killed in a single car accident a month before Bridget was born. Apparently. He was properly mourned by all his pals, his pregnant girlfriend and his mother who managed to shed a few tears over her only son's casket. She was a very good bartender, but she had never had the most maternal personality.

Nancy delivered a happy eight pound, three ounce baby girl with a full head of hair and looking very much like her father. Nancy gave her, her father's last name, Blakely. Little 'BB' grew and prospered and was just beginning to take solid food when one of Eddie's old pals, Frank Harding, caught Nancy's eye. To her family's great disapproval, Nancy started dating him. Laura did not go out with Nancy when she was with him. Eddie had been funny and you could always imagine that he was kidding about his life of crime. But Frank was more serious about it, had a temper and liked to be the big man in the room.

Then one evening, when Nancy and Laura were out at dinner on a woman's night out, a mysterious woman approached their table. She was tall, tan and leggy with high-lighted hair, perfect make-up, designer clothes and shoes, and very expensive retro jewelry. 'This is from a friend who only has your best interests at heart.' She deposited a cell phone on their table and then glided away. Both of them had been so surprised that the woman had disappeared into the crowd at the busy outdoor restaurant before either of them could get up. But this was only a small surprise compared with the text they found.

The phone and the text on it were from Eddie.

"Eddie? How?" John asked. Sherlock's critical glare at her shifted to him.

Apparently Eddie was not dead. The charred body from the wreck and now residing under Eddie Blakely's headstone had been an indigent provided by the government who had whisked him away to safety in witness protection because he was providing them - - The Sheriff's Department? The state of Florida? The FBI? It wasn't clear. - - with information that would be used against Eddie's former 'crime syndicate'.

It had been an incredible story, but Nancy had clung to it like a lifeline. She dropped Frank - - the texts advised staying away from any of Eddie's former associates because they would eventually be rounded up by the law to face justice whenever they had enough evidence, with Eddie's help. She eagerly awaited her secret daily text (that she did not tell her family about), sometimes getting up at 3 AM when it usually arrived. Eddie was not supposed to be communicating with anyone from his old life, but he could sneak away once a day to send his untraceable messages. And hear back from Nancy about her life with his daughter. Nancy had offered to help, so maybe the government would spirit her and BB away to his protected-witness hideout, especially since a frustrated Frank still came around sometimes. But Eddie's texts had warned her not to. The government would just send her to a different hide-out and they would have no hope of even the minimal communication they shared now.

Sherlock now sat a bit straighter in his squarish vinyl chair, his hands now steepled before him though he still scowled. John encouraged her to continue. The situation changed abruptly two weeks ago.

They were out to dinner, just two friends taking an evening off, when Nancy confided in her that she had found where Eddie was hiding. The government had sent him to Britain, in the London area where his father was from.

"Really?" Sherlock dropped his hands to the arm rests of his chair. "And just how did she find him?"

"He's got a web page."

"A web page?" Sherlock's tone rose in a near falsetto. "He has a web page?" Suddenly he leaped out of his chair and started pacing on the pink patterned carpet. "So, you need my help to find a man in such fear for his life from some supposed American crime syndicate that he has to advertise his presence to the world with his own web page?"

"It's not his web page, it's his father's," Laura said when Sherlock paused for a fraction of a second to take a breath.

"Oh, well, then it's obvious." He waved his hands, suddenly wound up in a manic frenzy. "While it has been marginally, barely amusing for me to listen to your vacuous and highly improbable tale while John here tries valiantly not to stare at your nipples, I really can't help you, because your problem has nothing to do with your friend's dead Eddie, your problem is that you and Nancy are both too stupid, too credulous to realize that this mystery phone and texts could not possibly be from dead Eddie, because while I may not be an American myself, I know perfectly well that the law enforcement authorities there do not hand out new identities to witnesses until after they have actually _witnessed_ something, as in testifying in a court of law, and not when they are supposedly collecting evidence for some future case, and I really can't help you even if John here is willing to give your ridiculous emergency the benefit of his doubt; for me to do so would require me to give you a whole retirement plan of doubt, because I don't care about your tan, your short skirt, your artificially blond hair or your considerable bra size." He turned to his roommate. "And, yes, John, they _are_ real."

"Sherlock!" He jumped up from his chair.

Laura's shock lasted only a few seconds before the anger set in. She grabbed the laptop from the coffee table in front of her while the two men verbally went after each other.

"She came to you for help! You can't just call people stupid and turn them away like that Sherlock!"

"I can't? What do you mean I can't? I just did."

The laptop was different from hers, left behind in Ft. Lauderdale, but the browser was open and the address window was in the usual place.

" . . . you always do this . . . "

"Why do you insist . . . "

She logged onto her ShareBook page and then on to the 'Blakely Family' page.

"Well, what about the phone and the texts and the woman?" John demanded.

She turned the laptop screen back to the two men.

"There!" Her angry near shout made them both jump, better yet, shut up. "There, see?" She pointed down at the screen. "The guy facing the camera in the picnic picture; that's Eddie."

Both of them leaned down for a closer look; Sherlock picked up the laptop. "This is Eddie?"

"That's him. The hair's a little shorter, but that's him. And it's the same last name, Blakely." She put her hands on her hips, throwing her chest out, but it had no effect on Sherlock whatsoever. He threw himself back into his chair, legs folded up onto the cushion, laptop balanced between them.

Laura waited.

He continued to ignore both of them and tapped away on the keyboard.

 

**-=- -=- -=- END Part 1**

 


	2. Chapter 2

**DOUBLE TROUBLE**

by ardavenport

 

**-=- -=- -=- Part 2**

 

"Well?" She glowered, but he just typed faster, not looking up.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John demanded.

"Solving your problem," he answered, tight-lipped, not looking up from the screen, "against my better judgment, but it just might be possible that there's something more to the fatuous story you've given me so far."

"Well, what does that - - ?"

"Shut up." Sherlock kept furiously typing, the artificial glow from the screen on his face.

Laura gasped.

"I'm sorry," John hastily apologized. "But he gets like this sometimes. Would you like a cup of tea?" He gestured toward the kitchen area. She hesitated. "I know he's rude, but he might actually be able to help your friend," he grimaced toward Sherlock, still ignoring them, "if we leave him alone for a bit."

She went, against her better judgment. Did he really solve people's problems? Or did he just get paid to insult people?

John Watson apologized again while he rummaged through some drawers and cupboards under the counter. Laura was sure that he did that a lot for his roommate, apologize. She took a seat beside a counter top that jutted out from the wall opposite the sink and stove and set her purse down. The counters were cluttered with jars and boxes, dirty dishes in the sink, a microscope amidst other junk on the wooden table in the center of the kitchen under a low-hanging, utilitarian florescent light fixture. Men always had a much higher tolerance for squalor than women, and it was always worse if there were two men sharing an apartment. She'd had boyfriends for whom she cleaned up after, not because she liked them so much, but because she just couldn't stand it; she dumped one on the spot when he ignored a palmetto bug, the Florida state cockroach, in his bedroom. As far as man-caves went, this one was on the eccentric side; it looked like an old granny's apartment full of garage sale rejects. British garage-sale rejects; not a single chair or table in the living room matched anything.

And cave it was. The living area had windows on the front and back ends that hardly let in any natural light. Aside from the jumble of tables, chairs, bookcases and junk, the living-room had three, no four, different kinds of ugly old-lady-style wall-paper. The kitchen had different styles of randomly patterned blue tiles on opposite walls and a pretty dingy looking floor.

John asked why Eddie would be hiding in England.

"Because of his father. You see Eddie was born in Britain. He had to sign all kinds of paperwork renouncing his British citizenship when he turned eighteen. His parents met on the punk rock scene in the eighties. They had a big romance and then a flaming breakup after Eddie was born. I don't think Debby has spoken with Eddie's father since, not even when she had to get all Eddie's birth records to send in to Immigration. I don't even think she sent him a card when he died. Said she lost the address." A ridiculous excuse these days when one only had to look on the internet to find someone.

"Oh, well, so this is your first trip here?"

"Yes, Nancy and I have never been. It's a good thing we've been on vacation to Jamaica and Mexico, so we already had our passports. Otherwise it could take weeks to get one, unless you want to pay a lot extra to get it expedited."

"Don't people in the States have passports?" The cups and saucers clinked as John got them out of a cupboard.

Laura shook her head. "No. Lots of people never leave the country so they don't bother, but these days you have to have a passport just to go to Canada."

"Hmm, interesting." He poured tea into the cups and brought them over. "I don't know how you like it, but I'm not sure we can trust the milk. I think it's a bit out-of-date."

She took the cup from him. "Plain is fine." Laura was quite glad that she did not have to demand un-sweet tea all the time here, unlike Florida. It was stronger than she liked, but she was in a foreign country; she could deal.

"Well, you are a very good friend indeed to take off and come all this way on such short notice,"

"Pfft!" Laura blew that off. "We're best friends, but there are limits. Have you seen how much overseas airfares are? At the last minute? Nancy's grandmother is paying for it all. I made sure she made a deposit in my bank account that would cover everything before I left. The old lady can afford it; she sold all her real estate before the market crashed. I went right to her after Nancy told me what she was up to."

"She's paying for both of you?"

"Noooo. Just me. She didn't want Nancy going by herself and she could make sure I could get the time off work. Nancy's been planning this for a while and she's using the money Eddie gave her."

"Does Nancy know that her grandmother is sponsoring you?" John asked.

"No! No way. Nancy'd kill me if she found out I told; she would have been furious. But still not as mad as her grandmother was when she found out Nancy was flying off to find Eddie. She was mad at Nancy, she was mad at Eddie. She still thinks he's dead, even after I showed her the pictures. She thinks it's some kind of fake, but I don't know how they could be. I just have to text her everything that happens while I'm here."

"Nancy's grandmother didn't confront her herself?"

"No. She said Nancy would never, ever listen to her. If she told Nancy not to go, that would just make her more determined. And I think she's right, too."

"So here you are." John sipped his tea. "What did Eddie say when Nancy told him she was coming?"

"Oh, she didn't tell him. She thought someone else might have caught onto his texts. She wants to surprise him. But he found out anyway."

"Really? How?"

"I had to buy some things for the trip and we were out shopping together. And that woman, the woman who gave Nancy the first cell phone, showed up again. Told us if we really cared about Eddie we wouldn't do anything dangerous that would get us all hurt. She shoved a new phone at Nancy while we were sitting at lunch. Nancy tried to chase her, but she got away. And the new texts said the same thing. And that Eddie couldn't send any more texts again for a long time. There weren't any texts on either phone when we left. Like they'd gone dead or something."

"And Nancy didn't follow his advice?"

"Noooooooo. That just made her more crazy to get here. She thinks he's in some kind of danger and she absolutely won't even consider the idea that she's the one who might be putting him in danger. I mean I don't know what she's going to do if she finds him. Or what might happen. Someone at the hotel told me about Sherlock Holmes, so I thought I might try. See if he could get her to stop."

"That's commendable of you." He nodded. "And you think you're being followed?" John asked, elbow on the counter. "Why?"

"Well, nobody followed me here. At least I didn't see anyone. But I saw some guy in the same hat and coat at the airport and hanging around the hotel, but I couldn't see his face. And I didn't want to go near him." She described him. Average height (a little taller than John), a bit beefy in the body (much broader in the shoulder than John), wearing jeans and tan jacket with the collar turned up, generically brown hair under a plain, dark blue baseball cap. Nancy did not see him.

She leaned over to peer past John to Sherlock where he still sat scrunched up in his chair, eyes staring at the laptop between his knees.

"Do you really think he can stop Nancy from blowing Eddie's cover? I mean just being rude to her won't work. She's as hard-headed as her grandmother."

"Oh, well," John peered over his shoulder, "Sherlock's in a class all by himself in that department. But I think he can come up with something better. In the meantime, can I get you something to eat? Biscuits or something?" He got up.

Feeling more recovered from her morning sausage encounter – she would never again even touch anything sausage-like in this country, and possibly not in the U.S. either – she said yes. He went to the fridge and opened it.

He hastily closed it, his back to the stainless-steel door. "Um, maybe we could just pop down and get a sandwich downstairs," he told her a little nervously. "They're not too bad."

Laura's nose caught a whiff of something unpleasant - - rotten casserole? rampant blue-cheese? leftover seafood from the Black Lagoon? - - but it didn't linger long enough for her to identify. Man-cave, she reminded herself. She agreed on sandwiches. He went to retrieve her coat and held it up for her to put on. He put on a dark gray jacket with black leather shoulders. Looking toward the living room, she paused at the kitchen doorway out to the hall.

"What about him?"

"Oh, he won't even know we're gone, trust me."

They went down the old narrow staircase, through the dark foyer, outside to the sidewalk and into the sandwich shop on the left. It was small and cramped like every other eating place she'd seen in London and the lunch crowd was starting, so they first had to wait to give their orders – she asked for a chicken wrap and a bottled water; he asked for two sandwiches; one for him, one for Sherlock to eat later. He reached for his pocket, but she got to her purse first and paid for it.

"Thank-you," he said, not too proud to let a woman pay for his lunch as he took the receipt with their number on it. Nancy's grandmother was paying for it as far as Laura was concerned.

"You know," she commented as they took a position by the wall with the herd of other lunch-goers waiting for their orders, "that Sherlock has got to be the worst roommate in the world."

"Oh, I wouldn't go that far," John answered lightly; then paused, "but I'd certainly hate to meet the competition for that post."

She laughed. "It's a shame; all the good looking ones have always got some kind of problem."

"Oh, . . . ah, really?"

"Oh, yeah, I love those tall lanky runner's bodies, but half of them turn out to be nerds or engineers. And Sherlock has got to be the biggest uber-nerd I've ever seen, except your place isn't full of old computer parts." Or a huge flat-screen TV – forty-six inches or bigger. She'd seen a very modest flat-screen on a bookcase in their place; it looked like it had dust on it.

"Oh, really." John stood up on his toes, trying to peer over the other people to see if their order was ready. It wasn't. They weren't even close to calling their number. Laura saw something that was called an 'English breakfast' go by. Ugh. Sausages. Along with gobs of other breakfast-like food.

She excused herself to go to the ladies room, going where he pointed in the back of the cafe. The rest room turned out to be a small unisex closet with the word 'TOILET' on the door. No mistaking what it was for there. But it was clean and had fresh rolls of paper.

When she got back John was still waiting, but the people behind the counter were only two numbers away from theirs. Finally they collected their sandwiches and left, going back outside, then inside.

"Oh, Hello, dear." A small older woman with unnaturally red hair and wearing a bright red dress was now vacuuming in the hallway.

"I think those decontamination people got all that last night, Mrs. Hudson," John stopped to tell her, shouting a little over the vacuum.

"Oh, it never hurts just to make sure, dear."

Laura looked down at the faded gold carpet. Maybe there were some little pale specks in it? She stepped very carefully behind John, who introduced her. "This is Laura Martinez. She's visiting from America. From Florida."

"That's lovely. Not used to dressing for the weather around here, I see." Mrs. Hudson's looked friendly enough, but her smile made Laura want to pull her coat closed and tug down the hem of her skirt.

"Mrs. Hudson's husband was actually . . . aaah . . . aaah." He seemed to choke on whatever he was going to say. Mrs. Hudson went on with her vacuuming. "We'd better get back upstairs and see if Sherlock has turned up anything." He ushered her upstairs ahead of him.

If Sherlock had found anything, it wasn't obvious. He was in exactly the same chair, same position, face glued to the computer screen. John got plates and cups and they ate their sandwiches. It was acceptable food. At least not any worse than a Subway. Sherlock's sandwich was left in the paper bag on the counter. John took the plates to the half-full sink and hesitated, obviously debating whether it was time to wash them or just put them in with the others.

The electronic tones of I'm-coming-out,-so-you-better-get-this-party-started interrupted his moment of indecision and Laura dove for her purse and the cell phone inside. It was a text from Nancy.

"Oh, no." She looked up from the small glowing screen. "She found Eddie. She's going to meet him."

 

**-=- -=- -=- END Part 2**

 


	3. Chapter 3

**DOUBLE TROUBLE**

by ardavenport

 

**-=- -=- -=- Part 3**

 

"Turn left," John told the driver, his laptop on his knees. He was in the middle of the backseat of the cab, Sherlock on his left, Laura on his right. The cab was a black, old-fashioned vehicle with a back seat large enough for the three of them. Her thigh pressed next to John's as she peered at the laptop. She and Nancy had made sure they could find each other through the GPS on their phones, but it was easier to use the bigger screen on John's laptop. Plus, Sherlock and John had the big advantage of actually knowing where they were going. On the way John filled Sherlock in on everything Laura had told him while they were waiting in the kitchen, but Sherlock seemed to already know about it. He was more interested in his cell phone that he kept texting on. Laura was surprised at first until Sherlock calmly informed her that he had made good use of her ShareBook account. John rebuked him for invading her privacy in a tone of voice that said that he knew it wouldn't do any good.

They were zeroing in what John said was a business district. Nancy wasn't helping by moving, but it wasn't very fast, so she was probably on foot.

They turned from four-lane streets to narrower two-lane ones. Low narrow buildings and shops with a few glassy modern office structures. Business people on the sidewalks, suits and slacks, gray skirts and pale long sleeve buttoned-up shirts. After another couple of turns there was no question at all about where Nancy was.

And Eddie.

Nancy clung to his legs crying and shrieking. The few people passing them by, giving them strange looks, still kept walking, a few taking out their cell phones.

"Oh, how predictable," Sherlock moaned while John shouted to the driver where to stop. Laura grabbed her purse and hastily tossed three bills with '20' and the Queen on them to the front seat and told the driver to keep the change. They all piled out as soon as the cab stopped, Sherlock jumping out first, Laura and then John who shoved his laptop at her as he went. 'Eddie' had broken away from Nancy and ran down the street, his shirt and tie disheveled, his jacket half torn off his shoulders.

"Eddie! Eddie!" On her hands and knees on the sidewalk, she still reached a hand out to the fleeing man. She looked terrible, her brown hair and make-up messed up, her coat and blue dress pulled down and pulled up and she'd broken one of her heels.

"Nancy! Stop that!" Laura knelt and put her arms around the hysterical woman. "Stop this! Everybody's looking! You're in another country!"

Nancy just sobbed, 'He doesn't know me! He doesn't know me! Why doesn't he know me? Why?!'

Looking up, Laura saw John running away. Sherlock and 'Eddie' had already disappeared.

"Come on!" She hauled Nancy to her feet and clutching hers and Nancy's purses, and the laptop, she dragged her down the street to the alleyway where John had gone. About half a block away John had stopped and then he dashed down a side alley.

"Aaauughh!" Laura dragged Nancy, sobbing and limping on her broken shoe, after him down to the side alley, two-story walls on either side, no windows. She was sure they'd lost him, but as they got near the turn, she heard voices. Coming around the corner, she saw dumpsters on either side of the narrow alley, John's back and beyond him, Eddie, yelling at a man in jeans, a tan jacket and navy blue baseball cap.

"I don't know who the hell you think I am, but I am NOT EDDIE!"

It sort of sounded like Eddie, but it wasn't. And he had a British accent. Nancy was practically falling down and Laura let her go as she continued toward the men. The man in the baseball cap spoke, but he wasn't yelling and she couldn't make out most of the words, but she recognized him now.

It was Frank.

"Frank! No!" Behind her, Nancy had recognized him, too.

Out of breath, hand leaning on the side of a dumpster, Laura's feet carried her forward, closer.

" - - you're not getting away with this." Frank reached inside his jacket.

"Down!" John suddenly threw himself at the man next to him and something behind Frank flew up in the air, a black trash bag from one of the dumpsters and then Sherlock. Frank's hand came out with a gun. Laura reflexively cringed down, trying to cover her head with purses and laptop when she heard the shot. There were the sounds of a scuffle.

When she opened her eyes she saw Sherlock kicking the gun away, Frank on the ground, his nose bloody. John and 'Eddie' were on the ground. She heard fabric ripping.

"John!" Sherlock took a step toward them.

"I'm, fine! But get help. Right now, Sherlock!"

While Sherlock quickly called for help from his cell, Laura came around to see 'Eddie' down on the ground, John bent low over his legs his hands pressed into a tear in his pants at the thigh. The whole front of his sweater was bright red.

"Aaaaaauuuggghhh!" The wounded man writhed on the ground.

"Hold him down! Hold him down!"

Laura had just enough time to wonder if John meant her before she was shoved aside and Sherlock practically landed on top of 'Eddie', hands holding his shoulders to the ground. Laura heard a whistle sound that she recognized as a British policeman coming from behind them; she had watched a few murder mysteries on PBS, _Masterpiece Mysteries_.

"Eddie! Eddie!"

Laura headed Nancy off, keeping her away from the injured man. She heard John saying something about an artery and bleeding to death.

"He's not Eddie! He's not Eddie!" she kept repeating. She didn't know how she knew, but Laura was now quite certain that they had the wrong man. A relative? A brother that they didn't know about? But then, where was the real Eddie? She heard sirens, more police sounds.

Then men in uniforms and safety vests arrived. A couple of them took over for Sherlock, keeping the injured man, still in agony, from getting up. An ambulance was already on the way. One of the policemen even knew Sherlock Holmes and didn't question the story of mistaken identity he told them about Frank and the gun, which he said was purchased illegally in London.

Frank came up fighting, which was a bad idea since he was outnumbered and unarmed. The cops handcuffed his hands behind his back.

An ambulance arrived with paramedics. John Watson told them about the leg and the artery and the bleeding-to-death thing and they ended up putting the man onto the gurney with John on top, straddling him, still hanging onto his leg. They loaded them both into the ambulance that way and then they were gone, siren blaring.

A second ambulance stayed. Frank sat in the open door of it while a paramedic in dark military-like coveralls wiped the blood off his face. His nose looked pretty bad, red and swollen, but Laura couldn't tell if it was broken and neither she nor Nancy were going to get anywhere near him. Frank did hurl a few insults their way, in between his demands that the police let him go because he was an American citizen. He was eventually taken away in a police car; apparently his nose wasn't broken. One of the paramedics came over to see them. Laura didn't need anything and Nancy declined any help, but kept asking after Eddie. All they got was the name of the hospital he'd been sent to, St. Catherine's.

"Hello."

Laura jumped at the sound of Sherlock's voice. He was suddenly standing next to her.

"Ah, I see you still have it." He reached down and smoothly relieved her of John's laptop. "Good day." He turned and strode away.

"Wait!" She ran after him and he stopped with a big, visible sigh of impatience.

"Who was that man? Why does he look just like Eddie? And where _is_ Eddie?" She blocked the path in front of him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and she really wanted to slap him.

"That man, the one that your friend almost got killed today, is Eddie's brother, Robert Blakely, who is in fact his twin brother; the pair of them were separated by their parents, one going to America with his mother, the other staying in England with his father; two babies, two parents, a rather neat and surprisingly sensible solution to what must have been a spectacular separation since neither parent has informed their chosen son about the existence of the other one. And I do trust that you do have enough brain cells to rub together to figure out what the meaning of the word 'twin' is, which would answer your second question. As to your third question, I presume that Eddie is still under his gravestone back in Florida, unless his mother has chosen to have him moved somewhere else, though she did not sound at all like the sentimental or clinging type. Now I believe the police wish to get a statement from you. Good day." He smiled, swiftly stepped around her and moved on.

Laura stared forward. A twin brother? Eddie had a twin brother? All this time and he never knew? Debby never told him? She frowned; that really did sound like something that Eddie's mother would do. She still told venomous stories to anyone who would listen about what a louse Eddie's father was. She turned around with more questions, but Sherlock was gone, disappeared into the crowd of police cars and onlookers at the end of the alley. He had abandoned her. In the middle of the city that she knew almost nothing about in a foreign country. What a prince.

She went back to Nancy and told her – a bit more gently than Sherlock – about Eddie's twin brother. Nancy looked crushed, but there was still one straw for her to grasp.

"But what about the texts? Who's been sending those? And who was that woman who gave me the phones?"

Nancy had a point and Laura had no idea. Where had all those texts been coming from? She was pretty sure that Sherlock already knew, but they were going to have to find him again to ask him. But first they had to talk to the police detectives, a man and a woman. They wanted their whole story, plus everything they knew about Frank and they wanted to know how Sherlock Holmes had gotten involved. Nancy gave Laura some very cross glares when she heard that part of the story, but that dissolved into tears when Laura told the detectives about Sherlock's pronouncement that Eddie really was dead. She put her arm around her friend who, for the first time since they'd arrived in Britain, did not deny that Eddie might really be dead and buried back in Florida after all.

"I can't believe how rude he is," she complained to Detective-Inspector Lestrade. "I mean, people are supposed to pay him to help them and he just insults them every way he can."

"Yes, he can be difficult," Lestrade responded in a very sympathetic tone, completely dropping his official policeman's stance. "But he does get results and some of his sharper edges have gotten smoothed over a bit since he got Doctor Watson as a flatmate and he started that blog."

It took Laura a few seconds to translate that. "You mean he used to be _worse_?"

"Ah, well . . . " Lestrade looked at a loss for words. The woman detective just laughed.

"Well, where can I find him? Now? He still hasn't told us where those texts came from."

"Oh, well, I might be able to help." Lestrade took out his cell phone and quickly tapped out a text. "Give it a minute." Both Laura and Nancy peered down at the phone and the answer came back quickly enough. "He's at St. Christopher's. Probably to pick up Dr. Watson."

"Well, how do we get there?" Laura looked around as if it might be down the street.

"We can give you a ride on our way back."

Nancy immediately accepted before Laura could think twice. Thankfully the ride turned out to be in a regular car – except for the driver being on the wrong side – and not a patrol car designed to hold prisoners in the back seat. The hospital wasn't far and Lestrade wished them luck as they got out at the Emergency department entrance.

St. Christopher's was a big low brick building, old-fashioned on the outside and modernly remodeled and cramped on the inside with lots of medical white surfaces and white-speckled linoleum floors. A lady at a desk confirmed that Robert Blakely had been admitted and pointed down the hall toward the waiting area. Laura spotted Sherlock's coat and scarf, his back to them, as they approached and heard John's voice.

" - - - could see that that woman is absolutely stunning. Sherlock, even you - - - "

"Married to my work, John, married to my work, what part of - - - "

"Oh, hello." John suddenly greeted them with a nervous smile. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder and acknowledged them with a put-upon eye roll.

"I'm sorry you got left behind in all that," John apologized. Someone had given him a change of clothes, loose dark blue hospital scrubs.

"The police gave us a ride here," Laura simultaneously smiled back at John and glared at Sherlock.

"I told you that was what Lestrade texted me about," he muttered to the room and no one answered him.

"This is my friend, Nancy Russell. This is John Watson. And that's Sherlock Holmes."

"Hello," Nancy gave John a limp, handshake. She and Sherlock only made brief acknowledging eye contact.

"I'm very sorry for your loss," John said. Behind him, a woman in similar hospital scrubs, brown hair tied back, eyes down at a clipboard, approached.

"Oh, thank-you." She gave him a tiny smile. "Uh, how's, um, Robert?" It was the first time she had said the name of Eddie's brother.

John opened his mouth but the woman with the clipboard interrupted.

"Dr. Watson - -," she looked up. And jumped back. "Oh my god, not you!"

Sherlock sneered. "Don't worry, Doctor Wall, I'm not here on business." He looked up and around at the waiting area. "At least not your business," he finished dismissively and shoved his hands into his pockets.

The woman edged closer to John. "Oh, my god, you're not his doctor, are you?"

"Um, worse; we're flatmates. I take it that you know each other?" He gestured from her to Sherlock.

"Unfortunately. When I saw that this was a shooting I didn't think - - he didn't shoot that man, did he?" She eyed Sherlock warily.

"No. In fact, he disarmed the shooter. Um, how is Mr. Blakely?"

Tearing her eyes away from Sherlock, she glanced down at her clipboard again. "Right. I've heard from Surgery and it looks like Mr. Blakely will keep his leg. That was very good work on your part. Where did you get your training?"

"Afghanistan," John answered, losing his smile.

"Oh, well," she lowered her eyes a moment. "That's all right. Then it was especially lucky you were there when it happened."

"Ah!" Sherlock interrupted. "I believe that this would be Mr. George Blakely. "

A white-haired man came striding into the waiting area going right to the two obvious doctors in their group.

"What's this I hear that my son's been shot?"

They edged away from the father and doctors to the other side of the waiting area. A woman, girl and elderly man who were already there in the chairs lining the walls ignored them as Laura and Nancy took seats while Sherlock stood nearby. Laura caught a few words, 'shot' and 'artery' and 'surgery' and 'fine'. George Blakely listened, calming down, until - -

"What!"

He strode right up to Sherlock with John following and Wall retreating back down the hall.

"What is this about my son Edward being dead? What happened? Was he shot too by this American?"

"No, Mr. Blakely. He was killed in a car accident in Florida last year. Unfortunately, his mother neglected to notify you about it." He straightened as he delivered the bad news. "My condolences," he added quickly, his low voice politely neutral. "I only became involved when a friend of his, two of them actually, came to this country mistaking your son Robert for Edward, Eddie, as they called him. Unfortunately an unsavory associate of Eddie's made the same mistake and followed them, which is what led to the shooting today." He extended an arm. "May I introduce Miss Laura Martinez and Miss Nancy Russell. Miss Russell also happens to be the mother of Eddie's daughter." His face brightened in a lightning-quick smile. "Congratulations. You have a grandchild."

The man gasped for air like a fish out of water and John, standing next to him was looking concerned. But then his expression hardened into something like murderous rage.

"That harpie! How could she not tell me? I never thought even she'd sink so low that she couldn't bother to pick up a phone!" he snarled. "It's a damn good thing there's a whole ocean between us or I'd strangle her on the spot." Nobody dared say anything while his anger boiled down to a simmer. But his eyes finally landed on Nancy and he walked up to her.

"Is it true? Did you and Edward have a child?"

"Yes," Nancy meekly replied, looking small in the waiting room chair. "A little girl. Bridget. Bridget Blakely. We call her BB."

"Blakely." His voice broke on the last syllable and he took a couple gulps of air to steady himself. "So, you're his wife, then?"

She shook her head. "We talked about it. But we didn't get married. It just seemed, you know, the right thing to do to give her his name since he died before she was born." She ducked her head, grabbing her purse, pulling out her cell phone, going to the saved photos and bringing up one. Laura already had a copy of it on her phone and a lot more.

"Here," Nancy held it up to him, a peace offering.

Mr. Blakely gingerly took the phone, his eyes tearing up at the sight of the smiling face, BB wearing a pink and yellow polka-dot sleeper, little hand grasping for the camera. His face crumpled and he slid down into the seat next to Nancy. He fumbled a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and began wiping his face.

"So, that's my Edward's little girl then?"

"Yes." Nancy wiped her face with a tissue from her own purse before tapping on the phone to show him more pictures BB.

Laura got up and moved away to give them a little more privacy. His eyes full of sympathy, John shuffled away with her. Even Sherlock's head was bowed in some show of respect. They didn't say anything until Sherlock's phone toned for attention. Holding it up, he touched the screen and smiled.

"Ah," he announced with satisfaction. "Right on time."

 

**-=- -=- -=- END Part 3**

 


	4. Chapter 4

**DOUBLE TROUBLE**

by ardavenport

 

**-=- -=- -=- Part 4**

 

John Watson offered Laura his chair on one side of the gas fireplace. She accepted while he sat in the squarish vinyl-looking thing on the other side. Nancy and George Blakely sat together on the sofa on the other side of the 221B Baker Street living room. Sherlock took his place of honor at his desk, taping on his laptop, setting up the video link. He looked entirely too pleased with himself. He finally finished the last keystroke and sat back.

There was a pause. Then a beep.

"Ah," Sherlock smiled. "Mrs. Hanson. I'm pleased to finally meet you."

"Can't say the same thing about you, Mr. Holmes."

Laura started. Nancy gasped, "Grandmother," and then put her hand to her mouth. Laura couldn't see the image; the screen and the camera faced toward only Sherlock, currently bathed in the laptop's electronic glow.

"I've seen your web page Mr. Holmes and you don't look like a man who can be bought, but just in case you can, how much for your silence?"

He clasped his hands together. "I'm afraid that that is not available," his eyes flicked to either side of the room, "at any price, Mrs. Hanson. Might I say that I've seen your web page as well. You are quite connected for a woman of your generation."

"I may be old, but I'm not slow," she repeated a catch-phrase that Laura had heard her use many times. "You said that you found Eddie's brother? An identical twin. That's who Nancy flew off to see?"

"Yes. George Blakely and Debby Gravchek had twin boys in London country while they were active participants of the punk rock scene in the 1980's. But apparently the stress of sudden parenthood poisoned their union beyond repair. If there had been a marriage there would have been quite a few more complications to their separation, but as it was, they each took a baby and went their separate ways. This fact might have gone unnoticed for either family if your texts to your granddaughter hadn't led her to believe that Eddie was still alive in this country."

"Well, how the hell was I supposed to know he had an identical twin brother tucked away somewhere?"

"You couldn't," Sherlock agreed. "And had either parent saw fit to inform their sons that they had a brother, this whole misunderstanding might have been avoided." His eyes flicked to George Blakely who hung his head. "The reasons for your deception are obvious to me, but I wouldn't mind hearing them in your own words."

"It was the only way I could keep her away from Frank! That stupid girl got all nostalgic about missing Eddie and thought that dating one of his buddies from the old days would bring him back!" There was a pause. Nancy clapped her hand over her mouth again. "So, I just worked out a better way of bringing Eddie back. One that would keep her away from people like Frank."

"You might have just forbidden her to see him," Sherlock noted. "She is an adult, but I understand she lives in your household. You have some say in the matter."

"I'll let you in on a little secret, Mr. Holmes. At her age, I _was_ Nancy. I partied, I took drugs, I hung out with a very fast crowd, and too many of them were just a bit like Frank. I can tell you from personal experience that life has never been so thrilling for me since. Back then, I guarantee you that no grandmother of mine could have told me what to do with my life. Ordering her not to see him would have made dating him that much more exciting and driven her right into his arms."

Nancy bowed her head, silently weeping. Laura glared at Sherlock who was so clearly enjoying his show at Nancy's expense, like an actor on a stage. The Big Reveal of The Big Mystery. The spotlight on him.

"But there is more to life than getting kicks," Mrs. Hanson's voice went on, "and fortunately I saw that and got out before I got arrested or worse. I thought Nancy had seen that, too, when she had her daughter, before she started going out with Frank. What's going to happen to him, by the way?"

Sherlock raised his brows and gestured with his hands speculatively. "He will be charged with attempted murder – of Robert Blakely, who is expected to survive without losing his leg - assault and possession of an illegal weapon. The law here deals with gun crimes very differently than in your country. Starting with illegally having one in the first place. The authorities will be very interested in finding out where he got it from, since it's unlikely he got it through customs. He'll certainly be tried. And convicted. But in the end, they may decide that he's too much trouble and send him back to your country to serve out his term."

"I hope they send him back here. That bastard deserves to be in an _American_ prison."

"I cannot disagree with you there. But you can answer one question for me." Sherlock held up a finger. "Who was the mystery woman who gave Nancy the cell phone with the false texts? I assume she was working for you."

Mrs. Hanson laughed. "One of my former nurses, from when I had my hip replaced. She was brought up to be a good Mormon girl, decided that she really didn't want to grow up to be a Mormon. Always wondered what a faster lifestyle would be like, but had enough sense to not want the risks. This was a way for her to get a taste of the excitement of being one of the beautiful people, and I got a convincingly mysterious way of delivering Eddie's messages to Nancy. I paid for the make-over and gave her some lessons on how to walk and act. I gave her a lot of lessons in those things, actually. I was pretty much starting from scratch. She did do a good job – Nancy certainly bought it – and had a lot fun doing it, but she was happy to resume her usual life, though I understand that she's kept some of the improvements."

"Ah." Sherlock nodded, a satisfied smile on his face.

"But what are you going to tell Nancy? If she finds out I tricked her, I'm afraid she might go right back to Eddies old pals just to spite me – "

"Nooo!"

Sherlock barely had time to scramble up away from Nancy's frantic grab for the laptop, almost falling all over John who had been leaning forward in his chair listening with everyone else. "Aye, Sherlock!" he complained.

"It's all right! It's all right, Grandmother! I'm right here and I heard everything and it's all right!" Nancy babbled to the laptop. "You were right! You were right about me! I never would have listened." The babbling turned into higher pitched gibbering somewhere in between tearful joy and insanity. But what stunned Laura was that similar gibbering was coming from the computer as well. She would not have thought it possible for the Iron Matriarch of Nancy's family to be capable of such a thing, but apparently it was.

The shock and revelation slowed down into weepy forgiveness. "Grandmother, where's BB?"

"In the next room with Marcie."

"Can you get her, please? Please?"

Laura saw Sherlock scowl and reach out for the laptop. She dove out of her chair.

SMAK!

Sherlock jumped back, again. Into John, again. He held his hand up where Laura had hit him. She planted herself firmly between him and the computer.

DONT. YOU. DARE. She silently mouthed at him.

He drew back as if she might attack him, mouth open, gray eyes wide with surprise. He tilted one way, then the other, trying to look around her toward Nancy. Laura blocked his view, just in case he might decide to try for another grab. He continued to hesitate, his lip curling with uncertainty. He looked like he had a short circuit. Baby noises came from the laptop behind Laura.

"Hi BB! Hi BB! Pretty girl, pretty girl! It's Mommy!"

"Mah-mah!"

John grabbed Sherlock's arm, pulling him off balance and dragged him toward the kitchen. Laura followed. John didn't let go until they were past the kitchen table, then he and Laura took chairs at the counter sticking out from the wall, leaving Sherlock standing. He brushed himself off and then glared at his roommate. They heard more baby noises from the living room.

"I want you to meet your grand-dad, calling all the way from England, just to see you."

"Aaah, dah-dah! Bbb-bb-bb!"

"Ooooooh, she's a cutie, isn't she?" George Blakely's voice bubbled with pride and happiness.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as if stricken, but he did not take a step toward the living room, either. Laura heard both Nancy and George making baby-noises back at Bridget.

Sherlock furiously pointed toward the living room. "How long is this going to go on?" he snarled in a half-whisper.

"As long as it needs to, Sherlock," John calmly informed him. "And I'll break your arm if you try to go in there to stop it."

He drew back. "You wouldn't," he challenged, his voice low and uncertain.

"You can try and find out," he threatened cheerfully. "But I will set it afterward, too," he added by way of consolation.

"It's a good thing you're a doctor," Laura approved. "Say did that doctor at the hospital ever tell you how she knew Sherlock when you went back to get your clothes?"

"Oh yes," he nodded airily, eyes turning upward. "Doctor Wall said that Sherlock once tried to go without sleep for four days when he was working on a case. He caused quite a stir at St. Christopher's when his brother and Lestrade finally dragged him in. They apparently still tell stories about it there. I've got to remember to ask Lestrade and Mycroft about that," he added as if making a mental note to himself.

"That was a just a mis-calculation." Sherlock answered defensively, still warily appraising his roommate.

"On come on, Sherlock," John encouraged, smiling again. "You brought a family together. Helped save a man's life. That's not a bad day's work, is it?"

He opened his mouth to say something. Nothing came out as John's words sank in. His expression gradually settled into something like agreement. "I suppose I did save a man's life today."

" _I_ saved his life today," John corrected. "You helped."

Sherlock started to say something back, but then seemed to think better of it.

"Ooooh-gooo-gooo-goooh!" Mrs. Hanson was making baby-noises along with the other adults, too.

The derision returned to Sherlock's eyes. "Well, I don't have to stay for the aftermath." He made a dash for the living room and came right back with his coat and scarf.

"Where are you going?" John demanded.

"Out." He shrugged on the dark gray coat. "Maybe Lestrade has got a nice unsolved murder on his desk or something." He wound his black scarf around his neck and paused at the door for one final disapproving glare. "Please, you two, try to get your shagging done before I get back."

Then he was gone, his steps rapidly descending the stairs. John got up and went out into the hall calling an annoyed 'Sherlock!' after him.

Laura certainly knew what 'shagging' meant (from her _Masterpiece Mysteries_ -watching). And while John Watson might only be physically average, he had demonstrated other better qualities. And if doing him would annoy Sherlock, that was just another plus. He returned, standing in the doorway, another apology for his roommate's behavior on his lips.

"So," she leaned forward, making sure that he could see down her neckline more than what was usually visible, "want to hook up?"

His mouth opened, his eyes shifting from her cleavage to her face and back, and she could see him mentally translating the American into British.

"Uuuuhhh. . . ."

She brought her hands up and rested her chin on them. "Of course, I only practice safe sex. Being a doctor, I'm sure you understand," she informed him in what now passed for flirtation in the twenty-first century.

"Uuuhhh . . . no . . . uuuh . . . I mean, yes, yes! That won't be a problem, but . . . of course, you should. I always do as well. Of course." His nervous thoughts seemed to catch up with his mouth. "Uh, while I'm not saying 'no' at all, here – I am absolutely not saying 'no' – but I have to confess that I am a bit . . . attached to the things that go along with . . . 'hooking up'."

"Such as?"

"Well, maybe dinner. A little conversation - - "

"A date?"

"Yes," he nodded. "A date."

"Oh. All right."

Reaching into his pocket, he slid back down into his chair and took out his cell phone. "Take-out?" he offered, holding it up.

She grinned. They would have dinner. And after that, dessert. "I'm dying for some Chinese."

 

**-=- -=- -=- END -=- -=- -=-**

 

**Author's Note:**

> Note: While I very much enjoy the Sherlock series, I'm unlikely to attempt another fanfic any time in the near future. I could only make it plausible from the point of view of an American client; if I even attempted writing from Holmes' or Watson's perspective, the fic would be littered with annoying and inappropriate Americanisms that would just be embarrassing.
> 
> Disclaimer: Sherlock is based on the Sherlock Holmes stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Since the Sherlock Holmes stories are out of copyright I have no idea where the legalities fall. But this fan fiction is a derivative work, based on the BBC series, setting Sherlock Holmes in the 21st Century.


End file.
